Sherlock's Match
by Pendragoned
Summary: Johnlock Slashfic in which everyone now has a mark, depicting the initials of their partner later in life. Mostly Post-Reichenbach.
1. Sherlock's Match

On Sherlock Holmes' 5th birthday, its the first time he notices a small baby blue coloured line on his wrist. Sherlock, having a higher intelligence than anyone he knows, (with the exceptions of his late father and his 12 year old brother, Mycroft,) knows there are only a few letters of the alphabet which could start the way this blue line does. He also knows that this blue line signifies the start of someone else practically controlling his partner later on in his life.

He knows when a child reaches their 5th birthday, their mark starts to appear. A mark on the ring finger is more common, but there are rare cases of it appearing on the wrist, also. The mark as a child grows older develops into a set of initials in a determined colour, for example, a mark that is a pale lilac will turn to quite dark purple, sometimes even black. Sherlock has only ever seen two other marks in his life, His brothers, which is now a noticeable light green and starts with the letter G, and his mothers, which depicts a barely readable first letter and then a H, obviously for Holmes in a chalky white colour. His mothers mark is starting to fade, which he has noticed since he was 2 and his father died.

Sherlocks Mother inspects his ring finger in puzzlement before he goes to bed. Sherlock waits for a minute in slight amusement before he shows her his wrist. She looks over it carefully and nods with a small smile before covering it with a small platinum band. Sherlock's band is a family heirloom, and features the Holmes family crest emblazoned onto the clasp. Marks are supposed to be covered, as they private to everyone other than your match, parents, and other family.

**oOo**

John Watson is nearly 6 when his mark finally appears in a baby blue. His is also inscribed on his wrist before his father covers it with a platinum band. John's band however, is plain. His sister, Harriet, is 13. At the time when John gets his mark, she's looking for her soulmate on one of the finders available. None of them really work of course, but harry doesn't seem to want to leave her powder pink mark alone. The websites show what colour someones mark is and the enitials someone has, but on purpose, there are thousands of people with the same colour mark as hers. Harriet has already met 3 potential matches with the enitials C.H. The point of a mark is you are still supposed to meet someone by coincidence; the websites are just there to provide some interest for those who want it. John, understandably, doesn't care at his age. He wants to be an Army Doctor when he's old enough, so he discards his mark almost as soon as it appears. To him its irrelevant, if he is meant to meet his soulmate by coincidence, he will.

**oOo**

When Sherlock is 20, he has already met someone who could be his match. Their colour is almost identical and the initials the same, but Sherlock knows as soon as he meets them that they aren't specifically for him, and even if they were, he wouldn't be too interested. He's passing time by working on small experiments at home, since his mother is still too protective over him. Mycroft has managed to earn himself a rank in the British Government, and already knows who his match is.

Sherlock is nearly giving up on finding his match on the day he meets John Watson. He's always been sceptical about the whole concept of love, considering sentiment gets in the way of his job, Although there has always been a tiny niggling sensation in the fact he doesn't know who his match is. Sherlock is working on an case when Mike walks in.

'Mike, I need to borrow your phone.'

'Its in my coat... Can't you use the landline?'

'I prefer to text.' Sherlock rolls his eyes. The man stood quietly in the corner of the room is clearly military from the way he holds himself and his haircut. His limp is psychosomatic, as already proved by his therapist.

'Here, Use Mine.' The man offers his phone up and Sherlock gives just a trace of a smile for less than a second.

'John Watson. An Old Friend of mine.' Mike continues. Of course, Sherlock has already made the connection in his head, knowing that John and Mike must have studied at Barts together. A second later, Sherlock realises that the name John Watson makes him feel quite peculiar, though he hasn't felt this type of emotion before. His wrist aches a little, and Sherlock runs a finger over the marks, a small JW. Since Sherlock was 16, he hasn't gone along with social protocol, and has left his marks uncovered.

'Thank You.' Sherlock takes the phone, running his thumb quickly over the engraving on the back, deducing quickly everything about John that he needs to know for a start.

'John, This is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Oh.' Johns brows furrow together slightly for a second, and Sherlock notices his eyes glance towards the band on his wrist.

'Problem?'

'Uhm, No. No problem at all.'

**oOo**

Over the next 18 months, John has had at least 5 girlfriends. Each of which haven't been too concerned that the colour on his wrist doesn't match theirs, though the relationships haven't lasted in the end anyway. The mark on his wrist continues to tingle throughout the cases he and Sherlock continue to solve together. John continues to ignore it. Its not until John see's Sherlock jump from the top of he actually pays attention to the mark. As soon as Sherlock hits the pavement, it starts to burn.

Sherlocks blood pours almost flawlessly along the flags. His eyes are the palest blue, paler than John has ever seen them. They're almost like ice. John pushes through the crowd and takes hold of Sherlocks alabaster wrist, trying to detect a pulse he knows he won't find, but he desperately clings on for dear life until a nurse drags him away and Sherlock's body is transported inside to the hospital. John already knows, with a sick jolt, that Sherlock is already dead and isn't coming back. John sits on the edge of the surb, glancing at the blood stained patch on the floor where his best friend used to be.

John wishes he'd realised how he felt before. Its only then he finally realizes its Sherlock who's his match.

**oOo**

During the next year, John's mark is still blue, to his puzzlement. Usually when someone's match dies, the mark will very quickly turn chalky white, then almost invisible, like a scar. Which his hasn't, making it almost impossible to forget Sherlock, even if he wanted to. John frequently visits 221B, sometimes sleeping in Sherlock's bed. John finds this, strangely, is when he is happiest. Harry comes to see him sometimes. Despite how her and john have never gotten along, she still does care. Her mark has turned a slightly dark shade of fuchsia, since her and Clara are getting a divorce.

Its a Thursday, and like pretty much every day, even now, John is lay on Sherlocks bed, tangled up in Sherlock's favourite blue dressing gown, after persuading to leave it, along with his favourite purple shirt, skull, the deerstalker, and some other little souvenirs from cases. (Including, even though John didn't really want to keep it, but thought Sherlock would've wanted to keep it, The phone of Irene Adlers.) This box is sat to the side of him, and John paws through it softly. There's the pink phone, from The Great Game, Irene's phone of course, Newspaper cuttings from the various cases that were publicised, along with the gifts that thankful clients had passed to Sherlock as a reward. (Which weren't utilised, Usually they were slung around the flat or John ended up with them.) It hurts to look at all of the things that made John so happy, but he forces himself to look at them because they are a reminder it was all real, that Sherlock was real, that he didn't make up the consulting detective who has completely encompassed his life.

**oOo**

Sherlock has just witnessed Sebastian Moran be dragged away by police officers. It should satisfy him. At long last, Moriarty's inner circle has been broken apart, picked off one by one. But instead of feeling better, it makes him feel worse. Sherlock misses John. Sherlock's not missed anyone in his life, and the feeling is somewhat new. No one else like John stays around long enough to realise that although he may act and have the intelligence of a machine, Sherlock is actually capable of holding feelings, however unlikely it seems, even to himself.

Now Moran's no longer a threat, and all other leads seem stone cold, Sherlock decides he wants to go back to 221B. He needs to see John.

**oO****o**

'John.'  
'Sherlock,' John shuffles in his sleep, his mouth curving up into a smile.  
'John look at me.'  
John's eyes flutter open when Sherlock shakes him.  
'Sher-' John squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them, just to check sherlock is there and this isn't another of his dreams or nightmares.  
John reaches out and feels Sherlocks dark curls beneath his fingers, he's real, very real. Sherlock sits almost patiently as his match slowly runs his finger over his cheekbones.

Their lips fit together perfectly like a puzzle, each of them needing, so much, after so long.

John bites Sherlock's bottom lip before nudging the edge of his jaw. Sherlock hands are freezing on John's neck, a small moan escaping from his lips.

John abruptly pulls back.

'No, You're not-'

'I'm not what?' Sherlock's eyes narrow.

'You're dead, Sherlock,' John shakes his head. Now he's officially lost his mind, hallucinations aren't a good sign. Sherlock's not here, Not really. John knows when someone's dead, He's seen it often enough. When someones blood is pouring all over the street, theres no way they can recover. 'You're DEAD!'

'John, Listen to me.' Sherlock's voice is still quiet, reasoning.

'No, You're dead! You were dead, on a pavement, Sherlock.' John doesn't even know why he's protesting. Somewhere, He thinks if he finally says what he needs to, admits none of this is real, he can finally get over his match. 'You were gone, for a year. I buried you! In the ground!'

'John.' Sherlock holds his wrist tentatively, and runs his thumb over the marks that are still bright blue on John's forearm. 'Your mark is still blue. It's real. I'm real, You have to listen to me.'

'You bastard.' John starts to shake. For someone apparently recently risen from the dead, his voice is far too calm and collected. 'You left me for all that time, all that time you were alive and you didn't even bloody care to tell me!'

'John, this past year wasn't easy on me either.' Sherlock winces slightly, and its the first time John notices the shorter hair and the scar over his eyebrow. Slightly jagged, like its recent.

'You could've at least told me you were alive! I thought you were dead Sherlock!'

'I did it to keep you safe.' Sherlock looks down at the floor. 'You have to understand John. Please.'

John has only heard Sherlock say please once. So when Sherlock looks down, his lips puckering together, John knows he means it.

'Okay, I have to understand.' John grits his teeth. He's still angry, he's by no means over the fact Sherlock lied to him for a year in a matter of seconds, but he wants to know what Sherlock's being doing that stopped him telling John the truth.

'Not now.' Sherlock shakes his head and nods towards the small digital clock beside John's lamp, which depicts the time of just past 3 in the morning. 'You need sleep.'

'And how much have you slept in the last year?' John raises an eyebrow.

'Enough.'

'Clearly not enough then.' John huffs and flips the cover back, sliding gently between the sheets, trying to push Sherlock's dressing gown into the underbed drawer in the hope Sherlock won't notice he's been practically sleeping with it since he faked his own death. Unfortunately, Sherlock being the intelligent smug bastard he is, is trying to hide his smirk as he climbs gracefully into bed, what little weight he possesses creating a small dip in John's mattress. They lie back to back at first until John falls asleep, Sherlock shifting his weight carefully and resting his hand on John's hip, which has personally always been his favourite part of John's anatomy. Sherlock doesn't sleep. Everytime he does,he remembers the gunshots, how he got his scar, Moran being seconds away from shredding him to pieces. Even for Sherlock, the Nightmares are too much for him to handle. Although, now he is with John at last, He can at least rest a little better. Watching John sleep is far from boring, watching his chest rise with every breath he takes, knowing that those 12 months Sherlock was away were worth it just to make sure he could see John alive again, no matter how long he was away. It's the first time in his life Sherlock feels like he needs someone, and someone is needed by him.


	2. Sherlock's Return

When John wakes in the morning to find Sherlock's already gone from his bed. _Sherlock._John's head feels a bit dizzy as he rocks back on his elbows. Sherlock's dead. _It was a dream. It must have been._

He gets up, hazily rubbing his eyes. The flat is deadly quiet, as usual. His feet hit the cold floor, just like they do pretty much every day before he hauls himself into the clinic. Today, he decides, he _has_to get a grip. He cannot keep going round in this vicious cycle, Its not doing himself any good.

The flat is empty. Not to John's surprise however, Sherlock was never in 221B after that happened. Never. Its impossible, even for a Brilliant mind like Sherlock's used to be. He sets out a small cup on the worktop. Coffee is what he needs, something stronger than tea, something he can depend on to keep him awake considering he hasn't been sleeping. The warm liquid is inviting and a wake up call when John proceeds to drink it and get a shower.

**oOo**

The door clicks as another patient leaves his room. John pinches his forehead gently as his pen drops onto his desk to the side of his open laptop. John's tired, his eyes closing lazily and clumsily.

'John?' A small voice knocks on the door, before it opens with a click. John's eyes flutter open.

'Sarah.' He groans softly. 'Sorry.'

'John, If you're tired, go home.' She shakes her head wearily, but still smiles at him. 'You look like you need it.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, You're not going to be a very good doctor half asleep are you?' She smiles again and passes John his coat.

**oOo**

Sherlock drinks his tea quietly, tea which is in kind words, unsatisfactory, compared to the tea John makes for him, but Sherlock has become quite accustomed to the dull tasting tea over the last year since he's had to make it himself. His long fingers from his spare hand rest gently against his violin case. He glances periodically and impatiently at the door. John isn't due home for another 4 hours yet, and Sherlock isn't quite liking the fact John will probably have another outburst, but at least he will be here, breathing. Even John's breathing is content and interesting enough for Sherlock, now, which is something he still does not understand. Asif on cue, The familiar click of the front door is unmistakable. Considering is already downstairs making what Sherlock is certain is apple pie, again, it can only be John or Lestrade (The latter of which is highly unlikely.) So John is early then. Sherlocks mouth tugs up at the corner uncontrollably. He hasn't seen John in a full 8 hours, which, for someone who used to revel in being alone, is now far, far too much to spend without company. Especially when your company is a specific Army Doctor. Sherlock's eyes don't waver from the door for a second as it swings open.

**oOo**

John hooks his coat over the sofa, and walks quickly into the kitchen so he can put the kettle on. His brows furrow together gently as he looks back into the front room. Sherlocks sat there, almost patiently, crouched in his chair. John blinks, twice. He's slightly surprised, but it just confirms that either a) he has gone out of his bloody mind, or b) He wasn't dreaming last night.

'Sherlock, you've got 2 minutes. 2 Minutes, to explain to me. Or you can leave.'

'Its going to take longer than two minutes, John.'

'Two minutes.' John bypasses his argument and sits down on the sofa, watching the consulting detective, looking back over the scar on his face and his hollowed cheekbones. Sherlock Holmes almost looks like a ghost, now he's sat in the daylight.

'Moriarty was going to kill you. And Lestrade and , John. He had snipers on you all if I didn't jump. I did this for you all, first and foremost. Second of all, I note the flat is still the same and you kept my most prized possessions, not to mention my skull – you didn't change anything, you knew I'd be back.'

'Sherlock, you're supposed to be explaining, not bloody deducing everything about the flat.'

'I was in Albania, for a while. I couldn't contact you, whatsoever, since I needed to find Moran first. I wasn't putting you in danger again-'

'You weren't going to put me in danger. Right okay, you didn't think of that when we spent a year chasing serial killers or assassins or Chinese smugglers, no?'

'Moran is ruthless John, in a sense. He is worse than, was worse than any of that. He was a sniper, you see, Army man, like you. Just take away the strong and highly respectable moral principal you have and substitute it for being in Moriarty's presence for a long period of time.'

Sherlock knows that his two minutes are up, but since John has not bothered to kick him out yet, he takes another mouthful of his tea and lifts his hands to just below his chin.

'So.. Moran is Moriarty's sniper?'

'Was.' Sherlock replies bluntly.

John's head flickers up from the floor. 'Was?'

'Albania. Took me a few days to track him down before I found him in a small disused army base near the coast. He taunted me, said he'd killed you months ago. Of course I hadn't known that he was lying at the time. I hadn't spoken to you since my fall, and I wasn't able to contact Mycroft. I could only take his word for it. Which I didn't, not at first, then he went into detail of how you apparently put up such a struggle...It was harder to believe the whole thing was a lie, It was exactly what you would've done. If there's one thing I had noted, It's that caring isn't an advantage. It made me vulnerable. I couldn't grasp that after saving you once, I'd left you on your own, my attempt to protect you being just feeble, if anything. So, '

'You killed him?'

'Oh, No. He was alive, just about. They have him in a prison there for now. I think he will be interrogated here next week. Unlikely he'll be freed.'

'And your scar?'

'Oh, Merely cosmetic. Shouldn't last longer than a couple of months. Not only is Moran a sniper, He shows very good talent with blades.' Sherlock murmurs. 'This isn't, I can't, It's difficult to, I haven't felt this, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like, I'd be very, I wouldn't be able to function the same if someone had killed you John, and thats, it leaves me unguarded, It makes things so much more difficult,'

'Hang on, you're blaming _me?_ Just because you feel like you're _caring_for once?'

'No, Yes, I, Don't know. If Moran had killed you, not even killing him would be a satisfaction John. You wouldn't have come back. Not ever. It wouldn't have been a magic trick. I would be on my own again. Never ever, have I felt wanted by someone, and that I actually want them, In return. I've always been on my own, and that's usually how I liked it.'

'Sherlock,'

'No John, its you. I'm not blaming you, well I am, but, this is just strange. I feel compelled to convey a certain amount of emotion to you.'

John freezes slightly on the spot. _Has Sherlock just said he loves him? No. If Sherlock loves anyone, he loves himself. But what was that then, last night? John knows that that was very much real. Is Sherlock even capable of loving someone? He jumped off a building for you, idiot, of course he's capable of that. He just doesn't know how to show it properly. Its distracting._

'Sherlock. One Condition. You never leave me. Ever. Okay? Not again.' John firmly and dejectedly shakes his head.

'Never.'

'Promise.'

'You have my word.'

'Good.' John sucks in a breath. 'I want to know everything.'

'That'd take months.'

'We have months, you're not going anywhere, remember?'

'I don't want to go anywhere.' Sherlock confirms, standing up and straightening his jacket to sit comfortably next to John, his pale hand grasping his Doctors forearm, so that their marks align perfectly. He examines Johns wrist carefully. 'You're confounding.'

'What?' John blinks. Sherlock has never complimented him in such a way.

'Haven't I said that before?' Sherlocks eyebrows furrow together. 'I should say it more often. John, you're simply brilliant.'

John grins, something he has not done in a long long time. Its a grin thats reserved for Sherlock alone, the simplest way for John to say; _you're a stupid bugger, but I love you too. God knows why._

The kiss that follows is somewhat neutral. It isn't shy, or awkward, neither demanding. Its perfect, for both of them. John is Sherlocks match for a reason. Just as Sherlock's match is John for a reason. Its a confirmation, that Sherlock isn't going to leave. A Confirmation that he needs someone.

**oOo**

The month that continues is particularly rocky. Sherlock receives quite a lot of mixed comments. There are a couple from John's blog who have decided they knew all along he was alive and walking, and some that share a hatred for him. No matter if he faked his death or not, their view is that that's still fraud, yet no one is doing anything about it. Sherlock hasn't had a case for a long time and although he isn't supposed to, Lestrade drops some seemingly cold cases off to keep him occupied at John's request, since the wall has gained a few more bullet holes and the flats been ransacked while Sherlock has been hunting for his nicotine fix.

Now that Sherlock's back, the nightmares for John are less frequent. And when the now rare one manifests, Sherlock will wake him up, _(though he isn't sure whether Sherlock wakes him out of concern or the fact he's making noise. John prefers the first option, despite the latter being more likely.)_

John finds that he loves Sherlock more and more as everyday passes. The more stories Sherlock begrudgingly tells, the less John feels angry, because he finally understands why Sherlock left. Usually the stories end up with John curled up against Sherlock, wrists aligned, the flat deadly quiet, John's blonde fluffy hair tickling Sherlocks neck.

This particular night, in dead set Summer, Its particularly warm, as John lies in bed, Sherlock to his right, knees nearly at his chest with a small biology notebook on the floor beside him and a case file settled on his legs.

'You should get more sleep.' John murmurs sleepily. He's told Sherlock this time and time again, although nothing ever comes of it.

'Sleep, Sleep's boring.'

'Sherlock, I'm being serious. You don't sleep or eat, how do you expect to function?'

'I sleep when it is necessary, don't I?'

'Sherlock.' John chides. 'Seven hours of sleep, you require that.'

'Four is sufficient.' Sherlock frowns at the case infront of him, stretching his long spider like legs out over the sheet.

'Four?' John turns to face him, eyebrow raised in amazement as he takes his consulting detectives wrist and runs his finger over the etching on it, like he does at least once every day since Sherlock returned, before leaning up and touching his lips to Sherlocks, and brushes a finger through the dark fluffy curls on the top of his partners head.

'Whatever you say. I'm going to get my required seven hours.'

He smiles and shakes his head at the fact he even tried to convince Sherlock to get more sleep, rolling back over to face the opposite wall.


	3. Mrs Holmes

6 Months after Sherlock's return to Baker Street, and things are back to the considered normal, as normal as things can get for him and John.

'John! Tea.' Sherlock demands, his eyes fixed firmly on his microscope.

'One day you will make it yourself.' John sighs, taking Sherlock's cup from the cupboard. 'And you'll try something different.'

'What a highly ambitious dream that is.'

'Isn't that the point of a dream?' John coughs and sets his own cup alongside Sherlock's on the counter.

'There isn't a point to a dream. It is simply the images of your submissive mind while you participate in the extremely boring activity of sleep. They are usually bizarre and unachievable, explaining the phrase 'In my dreams'.'

'You always have to have the last word don't you.'

'You know full well by now the answer to that. Now the frequency of me doing so is just for the benefit of me seeing the face you make while I prove my point, Its highly amusing.' Sherlock glances over at the case sat beside him, then back to his microscope, adjusting the slide.

'You're still working on that case then?' John frowns.

'Oh, No. Lestrade dropped these off this morning.. With our dear friend Sally Donovan.' Sherlock grimaces at the last sentence, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

'Ah,' John passes Sherlock his tea and sits opposite his consulting detective, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's gently for a second. 'Speaking of delightful friends, your brothers visiting us today.'

'Why?' Sherlock's head snaps up.

'He didn't say. Although maybe you should be slightly nicer to him. He did agree to keep you safe for 12 months.'

'Again, go and dream. When is he coming here?'

'Oh no. I'm not telling you. Not after last time.'

'Why!'

'Sherlock, you purposefully went out before he arrived last time.'

Sherlock gives John a sullen glare and scrapes his chair back, the brown envelope covering his case already tucked under his arm, his dressing gown swishing behind him.

'Come here.' John shakes his head, and reaches up to kiss the taller of the two of them, twisting the small piece of hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck gently. 'Please just try and be civil when he comes round?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'Yeah, don't know what I was thinking.' John smirks at his response and picks up his keys. 'I'm off out.'

'What for?' Sherlock frowns.

'We need milk.'

**oOo**

'Why are you here Mycroft.' Sherlock wipes his violin bow carefully, inspecting the strings.

'Mother,' He begins, and Sherlock's head automatically raises, giving Mycroft his full attention. '-Mother would like to meet John.'

'You told her?' Sherlock hisses and shoots a particularly dirty look towards his elder brother.

'She enquired at the same time I told her about Greg. I was not going to lie to her, Sherlock.'

'I presume you have already arranged a date, then.'

'Tomorrow. I'll send a car for you and John in the morning.'

'Myc,-'

The elder brother rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, before twisting his umbrella steadily in-hand. Sherlock returns a look of disdain and straightens his suit jacket.

'Did she sound-'

'Sherlock. She's agreed to meet him, afterall. And what can she do about it if he is your match.'

'You know full well what she can do.' Sherlock grimaces and lifts his fingertips to underneath his chin.

'Nine-Thirty.' Mycroft looks down on Sherlock, before giving him an assertive nod and leaving the flat, his umbrella swung behind him.

**oOo**

Sherlock grimaces in the now quieted front room. He's expectant that his mother should not take too kindly to John, as she's never really been partial to anyone who is not of a class equal to that of Sherlock and Mycroft's, and she has been overwhelmingly protective over the younger of the two Holmes' Brothers.

'Sherlock, I can manage this, it's fine.' John sarcastically grins at his partner as he carries the shopping into the kitchen. As usual, Sherlock only helps unpack because he wants to see what John has bought, pointlessly, as he is on a case and won't eat.

Sherlock frowns in disbelief. 'I'm not trying _that._'

'I didn't say it was for you.' John calmly settles the blueberry tea on the worktop and proceeds to make a normal cup of tea.

'I hoped not, I have no intentions of drinking it.'

'Mhm. Listen, I was thinking of going to see Harry tomorrow, see how her and Clara are doing?'

'You can't.' Sherlock exhales roughly and looks over the multiple packets of nicotine patches.

'_I can't?_' John looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows.

'I just said that didn't I?' Sherlock looks back over the blueberry tea in disgust.

'Why not? It better not be for another case again..'

'No, actually. One, I would not like to have you from my company, as you discussed upon my return-'

'That deal was that _you_ didn't leave _me_.'

'-and you cannot go to visit Harry because we are otherwise engaged.'

'We're what?' John chokes a little on his tea and looks alarmed. 'You haven't arranged another visit to that god awful place have you?'

'No, but thank you for reminding me we have to go there again.' Sherlock smiles pleasantly. 'We are, infact, going to see my mother.'

**oOo**

A car draws up to Baker Street at precisely Nine Twenty Nine in the morning. For Autumn, the weather is as expected, albeit a little colder than usual. Sherlock settles his scarf on his collarbone in its usual style and walks over to John, who pulls his navy blue jacket over his grey woollen jumper.

'Nervous?' John asks, and Sherlock frowns.

'Not at all.'

**oOo**

The Holmes Estate is larger than John can ever recollect seeing a house be before. It reminds him somewhat of Henry Knights house, but more secluded, mostly by the big oak trees which tower over and surround it. Vines cover the pillars supporting the porch. If anything, the Holmes Estate is so idyllic it hurts.

Mycroft's car crunches over the graveled drive and grinds to a halt neatly and precisely before the huge wooden door.

'Sherlock, Mycroft you're back!' A collected voice calls from the doorway as Sherlock lifts his bag from the boot.

'Mummy.' Sherlock smiles, and it looks to John asif his face is going to smash into pieces.

'Mother,' Mycroft nods pleasantly, Greg at his left hand side. Like John, Greg seems amazed by the house that looms above them.

'Do remind me why we're standing on the porch still, it's freezing.' She murmurs dismissively and waves John, Greg, then Mycroft and Sherlock inside. 'Henry will take your bags up, don't worry.'

_Henry?_ John mouths to Greg, and he gets a shrug back from the Detective Inspector.

Looking at Mrs. Violet Holmes, John understands where Sherlock acquires his looks from. She's tall, and her skin matches, or is even paler than Sherlock's. Her dark hair curls up behind her neck and her startlingly light blue eyes look almost like ice. Sherlock turns to his Mother and briefly introduces John to her, as Mycroft and Greg venture upstairs after Henry. (Who John has discovered is the house servant.)

'Mummy, This is Dr. John Watson.'

'Ah yes. Mycroft mentioned you briefly. So you're a Doctor?'

John clears his throat. 'That's right,'

'Is your practise in London? I have a few friends with practises near Knightsbridge.' She balances her cup gently on the saucer beneath it as she takes a seat on the pristine sofa, resembling of that in Buckingham palace, which makes John feel more out of place that he was before.

'I don't actually have a practise; I'm working in a small clinic near our flat at the moment.'

'Oh..How nice.' Mrs. Holmes smiles politely, and the fact that it looks like she's had a lot of practise in faking smiles, doesn't make John feel any less uneasy. 'Sherlock, have you been looking after yourself?'

'John makes sure I do.'

'Well, Thats good, I suppose. Sherly, Henry's made lunch as usual, for Twelve, so you can unpack if you like. '

Sherlock stands up and straightens his suit jacket before walking out of the dining room casually, Leading John halfway up the stairs.

'You feel out of place, don't you.' Sherlock raises and eyebrow.

'Do you blame me? She expects me to be perfect for her youngest son, and I'm not.' John screws his eyes shut. 'I'm not good enough.'

'My Mothers always wanted perfection. She cannot deny we are matched, therefore I do not particularly care what she thinks of you. Its what I think that matters, is it not?'

**oOo**

'Oh, Sherlock, Victor called this morning.'

'Again?'

'He really would like to meet you.'

John looks up suddenly from the table and shoots a questionable look at his partner, sat opposite.

'I haven't the time.'

'Surely you do! These cases aren't that regular are they? You haven't seen Victor since University, and he's quite the scientist now. Owns his own laboratory and has countless accolades. You could always go and work in his field, you've always loved experimenting.'

John grits his teeth as looks directly at him with a jeering expression, drinking her water like nothing is wrong. Sherlock shakes his head unnoticeably to John as Mycroft and Greg walk in. John lets out a sigh of relief considering someone else can divert the conversation away from his profession or scientists and accolades.

'Mother, I don't think you and Greg have yet properly met.'

'It seems not.' She smiles. 'Mycroft tells me you're a detective. Not the same sort as my Sherlock though, no?'

'I work for Scotland Yard,' Greg confirms. 'Detective Inspector.'

'That's a high achievement,' she smiles again and Mycroft settles his hand over Greg's. 'I'm extremely happy Mycroft has found such a respectable partner as his match. There are so many people who just appear to be thrown together at random, don't they? Your Father wasn't my match, and I was perfectly happier with him. Sherlock, you should consider it. I'm sure Victor would be perfect for you.'

John's stomach drops like a stone, and confirms his earlier doubts about wanting to meet Sherlock's Mother. He doesn't fit with Sherlock. Somehow he's known it, and has finally put the icing on the cake. John just isn't good enough.

He stands, pushes his chair back and walks from the table without another word. He doesn't want to be here a second longer than he has to.

'Well. He's got quite the temper hasn't he Sherlock? Better to be safe than sorry, didn't your father say. I'll call Victor and tell him you're here, He'll love to-'

'Oh for god's sake Mother, Shut up.' Mycroft finally announces and she blinks suddenly in suprise.

'What?'

'John Watson is Sherlock's Match. John's been standing by Sherlock for nearly 5 years now. A Year of that he thought Sherlock was dead. You cannot understand what it is like to have someone you truly believed in commit suicide while you watch, then just as you are reunited, get greeted by someone who is convinced you're not good enough.'

Sherlock sits quietly, before lifting himself from his seat and silently leaving the room.

'Sherlock!' Mrs Holmes follows her son out into the foyer where Sherlock is stood still, His back to his Mother. 'I'm sorry.'

'I don't think it's me you should apologise to. For the record, I don't think I will be staying here tonight either.'

'Sherl-'

'I don't think I will be staying here tonight.' Sherlock repeats, refusing to even look at his mother, before scaling the stairs into his and John's room.

**oOo**

'John?'

'Sherlock.' John's voice is flat and defeated. 'Just let me go home.'

'I have someone who wants to apologise.'

'I don't want to hear it.'

'John. Please.' Sherlock's eyes rest on John's. Sherlock knows his mother rarely apologises to anyone.

'John, May I speak with you?' steps slowly nearer to John as Sherlock stands in the corner. 'Sherlock, Ever since he was little, has always been of extraordinary standard intellectually. I never ever meant to offend you, I just thought Sherlock's match would've been, well, completely different. I never expected someone like you because I'm surprised anyone like you could be so patient with him. I am not attempting to belittle you. I'll admit I was at first, but you make him happy. Thats what matters.'


	4. A New Case

John and Sherlock are greeted home by a new case waiting for them. Sherlock is particularly interested considering this case actually permits him to gain access to a crime scene, Even though the crime scene is a rather dirty abandoned garage.

Dimmock by now knows to just leave Sherlock alone with the scene and stands quietly in the corner, watching the detective glance briefly over the body, before lifting the left hand up and inspecting the outside.

'Have you got anything at all?' Sherlock sighs and removes his gloves, swooping down beside the body and casting a glance at the annoying Detective Inspector, then along to John, who shakes his head as Dimmock leaves the room to respond to a police officers question.

'John, are we seriously stuck with this idiot again?' Sherlock mumurs.

'Don't insult him, you knew Lestrade was in the Peak District this week. He's back tomorrow anyway.'

'Why did he want to go there?'

'A breath of fresh air, maybe?'

'Breathing-'

'Breathings boring, I know. But some normal people still like to do it, we're not all-' John doesn't finish his sentence, because he was going to use the same word he used in his last sentence to Sherlock before his fall, which he understandably does not want to remember. That day and the following year or so are still etched into his brain and he's unsure if they'll ever actually leave. Instead, John grabs Sherlock by his coat collar and tugs him down for a kiss, John's chest pulsing rapidly underneath his jacket. He couldn't get used to the euphoria that made him feel sky high when he was with Sherlock, something that he'd never experienced before. His military set position dropped as John relaxed, becoming even more addicted to Sherlock by the second, not slackening his grip of the familiar material crunched in his hands until he hears Dimmock's footsteps on the stairs.

'Sorry about that..Right, No I.D on him, but we do have some tickets. He's been here about 2 hours.'

Sherlock blinks, trying to refocus. 'Art Student. Left Handed, Late Teens, maybe Early Twenties, Travelled from not very far away judging by the mud on his shoes, still wet, he's been walking through somewhere thats recently rained.. Outer London, Most likely lives here.. Get the tickets for me.'

'Left handed?'

'Charcoal marks over the outside of the hand where he's smudged his work, not present on the right, ink stains around the tips of the fingers where he's been inking pages. Not hard to tell.'

Sherlock lays the tickets out clearly and rummages through them to check the times.

'Here.' He shoves one at John. 'Bus. Dane Road to Boston Manor Road. Student ticket. So we know he was living in London.'

'Maybe he was staying with a friend?'

'Possibly, although living in the area is more likely considering it being a weekday it would be more likely he stayed at home rather than drinking. Train, Weybridge to Waterloo.'

'What's that?' John frowns at the pile while trying to keep hold of the irrelevant tickets in his hands, pulling out a worn and crumpled piece of paper, which Sherlock snatches and peers at.

'Admin ticket for Southwark College, dated 5 hours ago.'

'Why would he get a bus and the underground? The underground on its own saves you 20 minutes.'

'Because he had something heavy with him, which he was taking to the College, probably an art folder.'

'Where was he found again?'

'Garages, bordering the corner of King James Street and Boyfield Street. Check Southward College's records, see who'se been in and out today.'

'You're writing up the case?' Sherlock smirks the next morning, drinking his tea. His dressing gown swishes around his knees.

'I'm writing more about the fact it took you nearly 3 hours to solve it.'

'Are you saying you could have done it sooner?' Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his partner sceptically.

'As I've said before, I'm not the consulting detective.' John smiles and shuts his laptop. 'I'm finished now anyway.'

'Took you longer than usual.'

John hears the hint of humour in Sherlock's voice and walks over to him, into the kitchen. 'Nice to know you're paying attention.'

'John, how could I not pay attention. You're the only person I'm vaguely interested in.'

'Aside from murderers, kidnappers, sociopaths, and pretty much every other criminal out there.' John chuckles, running a hand through Sherlock's recently washed fluffy brown curls.

'They come and go. My interest for you is maintained and consistent.'

John awkwardly grins at Sherlock, before kissing him neatly . 'Thats possibly the sweetest thing thats ever left your mouth, isn't it? Listen, I know visiting your mother didn't go quite to plan, but I thought we could go see mine, at some point.'

'Are you sure thats a good idea?' Sherlock raises his eyebrow again.

'Yes, well..yes, I'm sure. Not now, but, in the near future, you know.'

'Fine.'

John passes Sherlock a cup of tea off the side, which he drinks before promptly spitting it back out into the sink.

'I told you, no!'

John leans on the kitchen table, beside himself with laughter. 'I told you I'd get you to drink it! A lovely cup of tea.'

'Its horrible! Who would think of blueberry flavoured tea.'

'Cup of tea.'

'Are you even sure this is tea John? Its more of a disgrace to any normal drink ever made!

'Cup.' John grins at the fact Sherlock is getting increasingly annoyed with him.

'Ughh.' Sherlock shudders and dumps the cup next to John. 'Don't make me drink that again.'

'Fine, Fine.' John shakes his head, still smiling. 'Have you got anymore cases this week?'

'Unfortunately, No. Boredom seems inevitable.'

'Right, I'm hiding your guns again then.'

'John!'

John walks back into the kitchen. 'That wall has as many bullet holes as it needs. You're not going to put anymore in it,'

'Fine, that leaves us with Cluedo.'

'No, no no no no. No Cluedo.'

'It was the only solution!'

'If you say so.' John grins and shrugs his jacket on. 'I'm going to work. Try not to blow anything up while I'm gone.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and waves a hand vaguely in John's direction before lifting his fingertips to his chin. He waits approximately 7.6 seconds after the door has slammed shut before taking a breath sharply and pacing to his room.

In Sherlock's room, there are 16 different hiding places. The list is quickly expanding since John is now doing regular checks. (Which increased after Sherlock admitted to taking drugs while he was away.)

The newest is a small floorboard that has to be removed manually, then a Japanese matchbox-sized coded box is stuck to the upper of the right floorboard next to it. Sherlock seems fully confident that John won't find this particular place for quite some time.

Sherlock removes a cigarette from the box, carefully sticking it securely back in its place and sticking the floorboard down with its screws again.

The whole transaction takes about 5 minutes, and its another 30 seconds before Sherlock's also retrieved his lighter and opened all the windows to provide sufficient ventilation, to which afterwards he can finally smoke and relax for once, instead of being on such a high wire, because he's been wanting his nicotine for days, but John has been in his company for most of that time.

John arrives back at Baker St. at gone 3. When he does, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, but the kitchen table is littered with beakers that John doesn't even want to know what they contain, but aslong as there are no brains on the worktop again, it could be worse.

'Sherlock!'

'John?'

'What the hell, have you been smoking again?' John coughs.

'No. Experiment. How was the clinic?'

'You never ask me how work was, you bloody have been Smoking, Sherlock you said you wouldn't, for god's sake.'

'John, I thought I would try and make some progression in my interest for your current employment, therefore I re-instate my question, /how was work?/'

John narrows his eyes suspiciously and drops his jacket on the nearby chair.

'Quiet, very quiet..I'm only back early because Sarah only had 2 patients to see and she offered to stay.'

'You should have stayed here this morning, you wanted to.'

'Sherlock, you needed space, I respected that. You don't like constant company, I know that.'

Sherlock frowns. 'Thank you.'

'More observant than you thought, hm.' John jokes, flicking the kettle on.

'John, none of the blueberry again.'

'I promise. Thats just for me.'

'Okay. About visiting your mother..'


	5. Mrs Watson

A few weeks later, at 11 o'clock on saturday morning, John recieves a very very happy phonecall from his mother. Unsuprisingly, she's set him up with another one of her friends daughters.  
'You'll love her! She's got beautiful hair, Johnny, Blonde hair, the colour you prefer, and oh, she's got the bluest eyes you've ever seen!'  
'Please stop setting me up with people.' John furrows his brows and shakes his head over to Sherlock, who lazily nods at the phone attached to John's ear, as a _no, please don't ask_. 'I've told you, I don't care if they could be my match.'  
John fiddles with the mark on his wrist while clamping the phone between his cheek and shoulder.  
Sherlock decides to make a cup of tea, seeing as John looks increasingly stressed, shifting the boxes of different flavoured liquid that cannot be named tea to get to the normal kind, the best.  
'Fine, whats her name? Mary..Morstan? Yeah, I'll think about it. Mhm. I miss you too. Okay. I'll ring you later.'

John holds the phone in his hand and stared at it for a while. His eyes don't dart up to Sherlock's face until the genius is pressing a warm cup into his grasp.

'You don't usually make tea.' John frowns at his drink. 'And last time you did you put sugar in it, trying to drug me.'

'Well, I- I just thought it would help. Don't you want it? Tea calms your nerves remember?'

'Thanks,'

'You're Welcome.' Sherlock smiles almost too pleasantly before kissing his doctor gently and sitting back at the kitchen table with his microscope, leaving John perplexed and staring into the cup suspiciously.

'Mum, I told you, I've found my match already. No disrespect to Mary.'

'Then I want to meet her.'

'Him.' John automatically corrects, then screws his eyes shut. _Shit._

'Oh, not you as well John. You're not being serious are you? I told your sister this when she met Clara, and I'm telling you the same thing. The whole concept is _wrong._ You will meet Mary. If I have to make sure of it, I will. I will not lose another child to that violation of tradition.'

'You're judging him before you've even met him,' John sighs. 'And besides, its not a life choice. It just happens. You put Harry through hell and you didn't even bother to meet Clara once.'

'How dare you talk to me like that! And look, they're getting a divorce, so I made the right choice to not waste my time meeting her.'

'Sherlock's my match. I'm not going to leave him and-' John cuts his sentence. He isn't actually sure if Sherlock won't leave him. The doubt shouldn't be there, but its nothing John can change now. Sherlock's left him before, and there's nothing to confirm he won't do it again other than Sherlock's word, which he can't bring himself to trust fully. He's trusted before and only been slapped in the face for it. 'I'd like you to meet him anyway, whether you think it's worth it or not.'

'I don't think it's worth it, John. You're not suited to.. _that _type of life. I'm sure Mary-'

'Shut up about Mary for two seconds will you?' John snaps. 'When are you free?'

'Tuesday. Tuesday or don't bother bringing him at all. I'm being lenient even letting you in the house, considering.'

'What, Considering I'm happy for once?'

'Hm. I'll see you Tuesday.'

John's mother abruptly hangs up the phone. Its almost like rubbing salt into the wound for John, who promptly rubs his face and slams the phone back into the holder as Sherlock crouches opposite him on his chair.

'You need to go shopping again John, binned most of the contents of the fridge after I attempted to eat that fizzy yoghurt on an personal experiment of the immune system.'

'Because you never eat any of it usually. You're almost always on a case. Which reminds me, you can't be away on Tuesday, and how the hell do you make fizzy yoghurt?'

'You leave yoghurt for a considerable amount of time. As for the case, I don't intend to be, Lestrade doesn't-'

'Sherlock I mean it. I can't introduce you if you're not there can I?'

'It seems not.'

'And you could always do the shopping yourself once in a while.'

Sherlock head shoots up as he looks at John alarmed.

By the time Tuesday finally rolls around, John is contemplating the option of just going to see this bloody Mary Morstan and saving himself all this fuss. His jacket zips up smartly but his hair is still fluffy from where it has been disturbed against his pillow and at some part of the night, tickling Sherlock's throat.

'You're nervous.' Sherlock announces, frowning. His dark curls are flawless, his shirt is uncreased, one button done on his suit jacket as he pulls his long coat over his slim frame and folds the collar down. He looks perfect, _as always. _The dark colours of his attire make his pale features stand out even more, but it suits him.

'How could you tell?' John smiles weakly at Sherlock. Its not so much he's worried about meeting his Mother, its more so the concept of _Sherlock _meeting his mother. He knows he's already fighting a losing battle, but he's fought many of those already. This one will be far less literal. He hopes. After all, Didn't Mycroft say life with Sherlock is like seeing the Battleground? And at this precise moment, he's wondering why the hell he didn't listen.

'John I told you-'

'And I'm reminding you, just _please_ don't act like a smartarse. We're trying to row upstream as it is, and-'

'_John.' _Sherlock purses his lips stubbornly and puts one of his hands on John's wrist, running a thumb over the initials there because that's what John does to calm him down. 'I told you I can't turn it on and off like a tap, but I also said I can try.'

John takes a shuddery breath and sits more comfortably in the back of the taxi as they pass the rows of fields that announce they are finally in the countryside, the weather is pleasant for the start of autumn, John's favourite time of year, if ever there was one. He can only vaguely remember being here as a child before he and his father moved to London instead, leaving his mother here with Harry. Various memories John's tried to forget any time before his 13th birthday are starting to flood back, assaulting his ignorance on the period.

'Sherlock I don't think- I don't think this is a good idea.'

'I told you I'll be on my most pedestrian behaviour.'

'No- Sherlock, I seriously, I seriously don't want to be here, not again.'

'John, Come in.' John's Mother opens the door into the vestibule. John's manages to put on a brave face, (Which his years in the Army have aided such a face to be so damn convincing,) as his mother proceeds to turn her contempt and distaste to Sherlock as she begrudgingly lets him enter her house.

Mrs. Hazel Watson is around the same height as her son and has long sandy coloured hair which hangs down her shoulders, and her cruel eyes are caramel coloured. Her unyielding expression is exactly how John remembers.

'What have you been doing Johnny?' smiles at her son, choosing to ignore Sherlock at first. The smile looks forced, which to John is not surprising.

'I told you, I've been working at that medical practise near our flat.'

'_our_.' stirs boiling water into a teapot, her snide comment barely audible to John, but heard like a church bell to Sherlock, who grits his teeth forcefully, trying not to say anything he shouldn't. 'What about Harry?'

'I'm not sure about Harry. She was working for some agency a couple of months ago if I remember.. But if you want to know you should ring her.'

'I have nothing to do with her now.'

'Thats just pathetic, and you know it. All you need to do is apologise and-'

'Apologise! To that alcoholic-'

'Hey! Harry's made some bad choices yeah, but you still should be ready to apologise.'

's face goes sour. 'You shouldn't speak to me like that.'

'And you should learn not to judge. Mother, this is Sherlock.'

'So this is your match then.' She pivots round to look at the detective, scanning him carefully from head to toe before clucking her tongue. 'What is it you do?'

'I'm a consulting detective.'

John sits at the table and closes his eyes. _Please don't start the speech, because then we will be screwed before you've even been here 5 minutes._

'Consulting? So you're like a private eye?'

'Well no- When the police-' Sherlock sees John shaking his head behind his mother and changes his path of speech. 'I'm sort of a help to the police when- when they need it.'

'I've heard of you somewhere before, I'm sure. Before you were John's flatmate and.. partner.' She says the last word with subtle disdain before walking into the living room with the teapot and 3 cups on a tray.

'You probably will have done, my job isn't particularly secret.'

'What makes you so special for the job?'

'I.. I'm extremely observant.' Sherlock looks at John from the corner of his eye, and gives him a small smirk.

'Observant? What can you tell about me?'

John immediately stands up. 'No, Sherlock.'

'She asked, didn't we agree that I wouldn't do anything until asked?' Sherlock raises both eyebrows.

'I didn't expect anybody _to _ask. But still no.' John shakes his head and sits on the chair opposite the sofa his mother sits on, placing the tray in the exact centre of the glass coffee table. John looks around the spotless room quickly. Nothing has changed apart from the pictures of Harry have been taken down.

'Fine.' Sherlock mutters quietly and sits in a similar chair to Johns.

Whatever atmosphere that manifests quickly dilutes, leaving all three people sat in the living room sipping their tea quietly without a word for about 15 minutes until the doorbell rings. Hazel Watson looks up in alarm for a second, asif surprised the house has a visitor. John is surprised too, at first, given the distance the house is from the nearest main road.

Mrs. Watson gently places her cup back in its saucer with a small clink of the china clashing together as she hurries to the front door. The muffled speech from the vestibule is inaudible before the front door shuts and a small woman walks through into the living room. John has a sickening feeling in his stomach.

'John this is Mary Morstan. Mary, this is John, and Sherlock. I forgot I'd arranged to have you over Mary, I'm sorry.' smiles at Sherlock innocently as she fetches another cup from the kitchen.

'It's good to finally meet you John, your mother tells me a lot.' Mary smiles timidly sits down opposite John and continues to stare at him, making John rather uncomfortable.

'I- It's good to meet you too.' John glances over at Sherlock, who is focusing his gaze on Mary intently. No doubt deducing her life story.

'John, Mary is a teacher, if you didn't know.' is suddenly back, forcing a cup into Mary's hand.

John smiles because he feels like he at least owes Mary that. He looks up at his mother in disgust, because Mary looks like she's been told god knows however many lies, before nudging Sherlock and giving him a nod. Sherlock shows traces of a small grin. He's used to just blurting what he sees because he doesn't understand the difference between what people want to hide and what the put front, because he sees it all. For once, John's giving him permission to do it, and although he never needed permission, he respected John's right to choose when it was the right moment.

'How long has it been?' Sherlock narrows his eyes at the woman that sits across from him.

'Sorry?'

'How long has it been, you pretending that your ex-husband had died?'

's thin lips purse into one hard line. 'I don't know what you're on about.'

'No, I think you do. He left, didn't he? You're mark, still that dark emerald shade of green, slightly differing to his, but not the same. If he'd had died, your mark would have been chalk white or not even visible, not unlike my mothers, but it is not. After John's father died you wanted someone didn't you, to keep you company. After all those years of John's father being away in London and then in that accident you just needed someone. So it didn't matter so much did it? That the pigment on his ring finger was different. You'd given up on finding your match. You hadn't ever found him so you settled on 2 arranged marriages. It was a close enough match for you, but not so for him...' Sherlock frowns for a second, watching 's face contort into a mixture of anger and sadness. 'He left, didn't he? Met someone else. Someone who was his match..and that couldn't be fought, so he left. But then why..Oh. His match was a man wasn't it? You still love him and it still hurts.'

'Enough.' She hisses. 'Enough.'

Sherlock softens his voice a little, but doesn't flicker his gaze from her face. 'Thats why you have such objections. You can't handle your only two children moving away just like he did, being _happy._ Just like he was. Because you'd never known what that felt like.'

She screws her eyes shut as Mary just watches, speechless. John holds Sherlocks arm gently. It's not that he regrets asking Sherlock to do this, and he doesn't feel guilty at all because of what happened when he was a child.

'Get out.' John's Mother's eyes flicker open and she clears her throat. 'Get out. Now.'

Sherlock stands up first, silently, with John stood behind him as he walks to the front door. The look he gets from his partners mother is not one he would ever wish on anyone else. Though superheroes are completely illogical, it does seem that is currently trying to burn a hole through his skull.

Sherlock buttons his suit jacket quietly, picking his scarf from one of the coat hooks before looping it round his neck. John proceeds to walk outside, not daring to look at his mother, because he knows he will get the same look that was painted on his mothers face everytime she hit him with the buckled end of his fathers belts as he curled up in the corner, full of revulsion and anger and-

'It was nice meeting you.' Sherlock's voice makes John blink as Sherlock smiles in such a mocking fashion that he is barely out of the door before it is slammed behind him, almost catching the end of his coat between the frame.

'Are you okay?' Sherlock frowns, looking at John worried.

'Fine.' John looks at the floor briefly before looking back at Sherlock, the sun in his eyes. 'So, Shopping?'


	6. Supermarket

**This chapter is more of a spin-off from John's joke about taking Sherlock shopping. Its not really necessary you read it, but you can if you like! This is also my first attempt as light smut. Ella ~**

'I can't believe you're making me do this.' Sherlock sulked. John smirked as they entered Tesco's with a small trolley, since given Sherlock's reluctant behaviour, he didn't expect to be able to fill a large one with the sufficient amount of food before Sherlock decided to leave.

'You suggested I go shopping, and since you weren't on a case, you decided to come, and this is my fault?'  
'Yes, yes it is your fault. I hate supermarkets.'  
'Stop complaining,' John grinned. 'Or I'll get one of those child trolleys and you can sit in it. Did you get the list.'  
'I remembered it.'  
'Sherlock, I needed that!' John shook his head and tried to remember the first thing that was on it, pushing the trolley into the various aisles as Sherlock pulled a criminology book from the one of the offer shelves as they walked past, and shoving it into basket.

_This is seriously going to be like shopping with a four year old, isn't it? One of the annoying ones who put things in the trolley you don't actually need or want._

'Do you really need it? Theres no space on the bookcases as there is and the floor is littered with your papers already.'  
'I'll just move some of yours then.' Sherlock smirked, most likely because that was going to annoy John most.  
'You damn well won't, I only have three shelves as it. What was on the list?'  
'You wanted milk.'  
'I need a new jumper first,' John clicked his fingers and pushed the trolley onto the travelator and into the upstairs clothing section.  
'John not another one of those jumpers. And I'm bored.'  
'You've been here 5 minutes. You can deduce some people for me if you want.'  
'I'm not a performing monkey,' Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
'Well then don't complain.' John absent-mindedly replied, pushing through the various patterns, not realising Sherlock had since vanished into one of the other sections, leaving John regretting his decision to permit him come along.

After trying three jumpers on and having a constant battle in his head over which to go for, John started to consider to go to the customer desk and put a tannoy message out for Sherlock, because John didn't intend to spend half his afternoon looking for him. Though, not long after John had decided which of his tannoy messages would piss Sherlock off the most, the detective returned, with the brightest pair of red boxers it was possible to find.  
'Sherlock, I hope they aren't for me.' John shook his head amused.  
'Why, whats wrong with them?' Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed for a second. 'Don't you like them?'  
'Sherlock, you could probably see them from a mile away.'  
'At least try them.'  
'I cannot try them, they don't let you try stuff like this on, have you ever been in a supermarket?'  
'I must admit the whole idea of shopping is new. Mycroft usually bought food. Or . I wasn't left to starve John, despite me not needing nourishment.'  
'Well, I can't try them on.'  
'Yes you can, I want to see and since you won't buy them-'  
'Sherlock, people are staring, can we not have this conversation?'  
Sherlock glanced around in interest. 'He didn't, no, he just looked.'  
'But-'  
'John I'm bored as it is. Please?'  
'For god's sake.' John rolled his eyes and tore them from Sherlock's hand, glancing round at the people still staring, his cheeks going as red as the boxers. 'I don't believe you're making me do this.'  
'Persuaded, John, its different.' Sherlock's condescending tone was laced with humour through the changing room curtain. 'Done?'  
'Hang on! Jeez, how quickly can you get changed? You're so impatient.'  
'Should we test that?'  
'No, Sherlock, you're not doing an experiment in a bloody supermarket changing room. I'm pretty sure that's breaking the law. Besides, I thought you weren't for displays of affection in public.'  
'On the contrary, I actually find that I feel better when people know I am so lucky to have you as my partner.' Sherlock smiled. It wasn't a fake smile, like to Molly or a client when he wanted something. It was a genuine smile.  
'I know you're doing this to get your own way.'  
'Is it working?'  
'Yes you git.' John shook his head as Sherlock brought his lips to Johns. 'What if the bloody attendant comes back?'  
'Did you see her? She's probably glad to be away from here, she hates her job. Besides, she has 2 boyfriends to attend to.'  
'But still-'  
'John you know I rarely tell you to shut up-'  
'You did it the other day!'  
'-but Shut up, otherwise she might well come back.'  
Sherlock cut off John's protests and dragged his arm into another changing room, and another, and another.  
'Are they all this small?' Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the last one. 'Ah, it appears not.'  
'Sherlock-'  
'Shut up, remember? Dear god, please don't say you have caught memory loss and moronic tendencies from Anderson.'  
Sherlock's comment made John chuckle a little as Sherlock kissed him again, forcefully this time, biting John's lip hard enough to draw blood, before trailing his tongue along his favourite vein in John's neck down to his clavicle, making John whine slightly. Sherlock lifted his head and pressed a finger to his lips, shaking his head gently before hanging his shirt up on the side. John had to refrain from laughing that even at such a time, Sherlock still refused to wear a creased shirt. It still amazed John that despite the amount of time they had actually been together, Sherlock was so fragile. His torso held at least three long jagged scars under his ribs, two of them paled, one raw, from at least the last year. His skin was so smooth, but incredibly pale and ice cold, making his bones seem to jut out more than they did normally, which came with the traditional holmesian make-up, (something, john noted, which had seemed to evade Mycroft,) His body was perfectly angular, from his cheekbones to his jaw, from his shoulders down to his hips. The notion of Sherlock's perfection made John feel uneasy about his stature. Sherlock directed his attention downwards, discarding the red boxers and leaving them in the opposite corner of the room. John's eyes shut slowly as he rested his weight against the wall, allowing Sherlock to do what he wanted, his brain too muddled to even care, focusing only on the electric shocks John felt as his spine tingled and his shoulder blades clenched under Sherlock's touch and instruction. No wonder Irene was so taken in by him, and Molly, and pretty much everyone who had ever met the consulting detective. His back arched and John gritted his teeth in frustration as Sherlock retracted and was replaced with nothing but cold air for a second before Sherlock was leaning against him, crushing their lips together, Sherlock's breath warm and bitter, his pelvis fitting slightly disjointed against John's. John's eyes didn't flicker open until a girls voice whined near the entrance of the fitting rooms.  
'Catherine I know! But I don't know what to do, Brandon's too soft for his own good, and- hang on my managers patrolling again, I'll have to ring you back.'  
John frowned for a second before the words sunk in and he pulled his jumper off the hook, looking at Sherlock in amazement considering he was already half dressed and looked extremely pristine. A smug grin was placed over Sherlock's face and he rolled his eyes.  
'Hurry up.'  
'I told you, not all of us can be super efficient.' John grinned a little and did the button on his jeans, moving to pick his shoes up off the floor. 'Shit, Sherlock, how the hell do you think we're gonna explain this?'

John recovered the trolley from beside one of the racks and lifted the jumpers up from it again. 'Which one?'  
'In my opinion, neither.'  
'Sherlock,-'  
'Fine, the plain one, if you must.'  
'And I'm getting you something too.' John glanced over at Sherlock.  
'It best not be a jumper.'  
'No, its not a jumper- do you have to do that? I like jumpers, live with it.'  
'Oh I do.' Sherlock rolled his eyes then kissed John's temple. 'Sorry.'  
'You're being a right arse today.' John grumbled, pushing the trolley back down to the lower level and past the checkouts.  
'We're not done?'  
'Funnily enough, Shopping doesn't mean, 'go for a jumper and end up nearly fucking in a changing room.'' John laughed, directing Sherlock towards the fruit and vegetable section. 'What do you want?'  
'When did I last eat?' Sherlock looked over some of the loose produce baskets.  
'Irrelevant Sherlock, I'm just going to buy you things to eat, whether you like them or not.'  
'Fine, you can make that risotto again. That was nice.'  
'I'll need risotto rice then. If you're bored, like I said before, deduce some people for me.'  
'Which ones?'  
'Her there, in the hat.'  
'Oh, Her excessive tan was broken on her finger by her ring, which coincidentally is not on her finger now. So, she's been on holiday-'  
'Sunbed?'  
'When do you wear jewelry on a sunbed. No she's been somewhere hot. She's got a bracelet on her left wrist with a single evil eye charm, so she's been to either the middle east of Greece. Greece is evidently more likely, now, the rings no longer there. Just one ring, so its an engagement, not a wedding. Her mascara has run too, and her eyes are red. She's been crying, and has not bothered to remedy the situation, so, conclusion, Her and her fiancee were on holiday to Greece, the likely probability is that her partner had cheated while they were away. The ring has been removed and considering the amount of ice cream in her trolley would suggest she's heartbroken about it. Next?'  
John pushed the trolley further up, picking some bits off the shelves before looking round again. 'Him?'  
'Oh, thats-' Sherlock blinked twice in disbelief and stared. 'thats...Average, boring..conventional..next?'  
John frowned. 'Are you okay?'  
'I am perfectly alright, John. you worry far too much. Next?'  
'That guy. Green coat and the glasses.'  
'Works in an office. The girl that's with him there is his secretary. Not that his wife knows he's here of course. He tells her he's away on business trips, when he infact lives at her house over the weekends. He was the brother of a client, before I met you.'  
John walked forwards into the aisle for ready meals. At least this way he could freeze things Sherlock didn't eat, waving vaguely over in a random direction. 'Her.'  
'John she's only a teenager, nothing interesting. Although she self harms during the night, she's an insomniac. Her mother is an alcoholic and her father often hits her. She doesn't tell anyone in fear it will just get worse. Her boyfriend just thinks she is clumsy, because that's what she told him, and he doesn't know about her self-inflicted harm either.'  
'Jesus, should we say something?'  
'John although you may see that is the right thing to do, which I do not disagree with, I do not think it is our place to intervene.'  
'Right, Okay.' John sighed as he walked to the opposite aisle, with the basket now holding enough food for a) a week, if you were normal, b) a month, if you were Sherlock.  
'Get those ones.' John directed Sherlock to the cartons of milk. 'We need three, the amount of tea you drink.'  
'I don't believe its me who drinks it all, actually.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he unloaded the items in his hands into the basket. 'Are we done now?'  
'Yes, we are. Actually, no. Wait here, and try not to insult anyone while I'm gone.'

By the time John had retreated back to the checkouts, he was alerted to shouts of: 'My husband is perfectly happy!' and 'How Dare you!' which immediately made his heart sink.  
'Sherlock, Leave it.' John rolled his eyes and pulled the trolley from his partners grasp and nodded to the woman, who was quickly turning beetroot with rage. 'I'm sorry about him, he just gets carried away.'  
'But-'  
'Sherlock.' John looked up at him and shook his head before putting Sherlock's gift onto the conveyor underneath other items to disguise it.  
Sherlock gritted his teeth and muttered an apology to the woman, who then retreated, holding onto her husbands arm for dear life as they walked away.  
'Can I not leave you for 3 minutes?'  
'He was having an affair, I though she ought to know since he was too spineless to tell her.'  
'What happened to not our place to intervene?'  
'It got boring.'  
'Here, you finish putting the stuff on there, I'm packing.'  
'On the whole, I think we should do this more often.' Sherlock announced, pushing the trolley further up to collect the bags of shopping at the end.  
'We definitely shouldn't.' John chuckled a little, before letting out a sigh.


End file.
